The boy said nothing.

"You got an arm on you like Bob Gibson, boy."

The boy whipped the ball against the wall.

"All right," said Jones. "You just listen."

Jones fed the boy the same stories and questions he had given the kids on the bikes. The boy continued to throw the ball, catching it bare-handed off one hop, as Jones spoke. When Jones was done, he waited for the boy to say something. But the boy did not react at all.

Jones had lost half his patience. He put fire to a Kool and looked the boy up and down. "Somethin' wrong with your tongue?"

The boy shook his head. "My uncle told me not to talk to no police."

"He told you right."

The boy held the ball and stood straight. He looked Jones in the eye for the first time. "You got money?"

"I might."

"I might know somethin', then."

"Tell me what you know." me what you know."

"Where the money at?"

Jones chuckled low. He reached into his pocket and handed the boy two one-dollar bills. "Say it."

"White man who owns the market, everyone calls him Mr. Ludvig. Man who works for him, we all call him John."

"John's a black man. . . ."

"Dark-skinned, got gray in his hair."

"What about the rest?"

"Rest of what?"

"What I asked. Did you see a young brother come and talk to those men yesterday? I'm sayin', someone who wasn't from the neighborhood. Like a stranger. Most likely, this cat would've talked to John."

The boy frowned as he thought. His frown broke as the image came to his mind. "There was this one man, came around early. Right back here."

"In the alley?"

"Man walked by me. Talked to John behind the store. Tall, young dude, had an Afro that was all messed up."

"He ain't say his name, did he?"

"Nah."

"Anything else about this man?"

"Nothin', I guess. Except -"

"What?"

"Man was carrying a book."

Jones smiled. "He say anything to you?"

"Nothin' important. Knowledge is power, somethin' like that."

"That's bulls.h.i.t right there," said Jones.

"I know it," said the boy. know it," said the boy.

"Street's the only teacher you ever gonna need. And books are for f.a.ggots, too."

"I aint' no punk."

"I can see that," said Jones. "Listen, you and me didn't talk today, hear?"

"For two more dollars, we ain't never talked any any day." day."

"Boy," said Jones, reaching for his wallet, "you about to drive me to the poorhouse and drop me off out front, all those brains you got."

THE TROUBLE STARTED after dark, at the Peoples Drug Store at 14th and U, where trouble was not uncommon. Fourteenth and U's four corners marked the busiest and most notorious of all intersections in black Washington, a major bus transfer spot in the middle of D.C.'s Harlem, a hub for heroin addicts, pimps, prost.i.tutes, and all manner of hustlers, as well as law-abiding citizens and neighborhood residents just trying to move through their world. after dark, at the Peoples Drug Store at 14th and U, where trouble was not uncommon. Fourteenth and U's four corners marked the busiest and most notorious of all intersections in black Washington, a major bus transfer spot in the middle of D.C.'s Harlem, a hub for heroin addicts, pimps, prost.i.tutes, and all manner of hustlers, as well as law-abiding citizens and neighborhood residents just trying to move through their world.

The Peoples Drug sat beside the Washington, D.C., office of Dr. King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference, housed in a former bank. The SNCC and NAACP offices were nearby as well.

Hostility between juveniles and the store's black security guards had become a regular occurrence at this particular Peoples in the past few weeks. On this evening, the guard on duty, employed by an outside service, confronted a group of young men who were swinging a dead fish outside the store and bothering pa.s.sersby with lewd gestures and remarks. The security guard told them to move on, but the boys did not comply. They called him "punk" and "motherf.u.c.ker," and when he retreated, a couple of them followed him into the store. The manager phoned the police. A physical altercation ensued between one of the boys and the guard, and the boys were expelled. The manager locked the front door. By now a crowd had begun to form outside the Peoples. As was common in the inner city, word had spread quickly via the "ghetto telegraph," and the story had mutated to suggest another beat-down of a black boy at the hands of the authorities. Confusion and curiosity turned to anger as the crowd grew. The crowd pushed against the plate gla.s.s of the front show window. The gla.s.s imploded just as MPD patrol wagons and squad cars began to arrive.

Available units had been called to the scene by radio. Derek Strange and Troy Peters were among the first to arrive. Strange got out of the car with his hand on his nightstick. He and Peters joined the other uniforms who had gathered around the lieutenant in command. The men were instructed to use their presence, rather than physical force, to restore order and protect the commercial properties on the strip. The crowd, now numbering in the hundreds, continued to swell as the men received their instructions. "Do not draw your guns unless it is absolutely necessary," said the lieutenant. Strange felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. His hand involuntarily grazed the b.u.t.t of his .38.

Strange and Troy joined the police line in front of the store and spread out several arm lengths but remained side by side. From what Strange could see, he was the sole black officer on the scene. He heard screams of "Tom" and "house n.i.g.g.e.r," and felt a pounding in his head. He brandished his stick and slapped it rhythmically into his palm. He did not look the crowd members in the eye.

Serve and protect. Do your job.

A missile broke the pane of the Peoples door. Rocks, cans, bottles, and debris flew around them. A Doberman pinscher was unleashed into the crowd by a local store owner, further inciting the mob. A sergeant screamed at the civilian to get his "G.o.dd.a.m.n dog" out of there, but it was too late. A full bottle of Nehi grape soda hit a cop car, cracking its windshield. Two police went into the mob and pulled out a man, cursing and kicking, and threw him into the back of a wagon. A second man was cuffed and put into the wagon. Kids poured lighter fluid against a tree and set it aflame. They laughed and cursed at a fireman who put it out. Pebbles. .h.i.t a squad car with the force of shot and twelve-year-old girls screamed out horrible things at the uniforms and Strange's hands felt damp upon his stick. He looked at Peters and saw Troy's wide eyes and the sweat bulleted across his forehead. For the next twenty minutes it was like a flash fire that they were powerless to stop. A young officer drew his gun in fear, and the noise grew louder and Strange knew then that they had lost control. Their lieutenant ordered them to pull back.

But suddenly, as if spent from its own rage, the crowd began to calm down. Stokely Carmichael, wearing a fatigue jacket, arrived from the SNCC office, was given a bullhorn, and instructed everyone to "go home." He told people to disperse and clean the street of what they'd thrown, as this was, after all, their neighborhood. They did not move to clean a thing, but as he spoke the crowd quieted further and moved slowly away from the scene.

Police stood in the emptied street, surrounded by shattered gla.s.s and other debris. Smoke roiled in the strobing light of the cherry tops idling in the intersection. A boy rode through on a bicycle, his kid brother sitting on the handlebars, both of them laughing. A young officer lit a cigarette with a shaking hand.

"Troy," said Strange.

Peters's face was drained of color. He stared ahead, his feet anch.o.r.ed to the street.

"Come on, buddy," said Strange, tapping him on the arm.

They walked together to their car.

LIKE THE MAN who lived in it, James Hayes's apartment was clean and unpretentious. Its furniture came from a downtown store and would still be stylish in twenty years. The kitchen had been outfitted in new harvest gold appliances. A color television sat in the living room along with a console stereo. The shirts hanging in the bedroom closet were dry-cleaned and custom tailored. All of these possessions were of some quality but deliberately understated. The man showed no flash. who lived in it, James Hayes's apartment was clean and unpretentious. Its furniture came from a downtown store and would still be stylish in twenty years. The kitchen had been outfitted in new harvest gold appliances. A color television sat in the living room along with a console stereo. The shirts hanging in the bedroom closet were dry-cleaned and custom tailored. All of these possessions were of some quality but deliberately understated. The man showed no flash.

James Hayes had lived here on Otis Place long enough to have seen boys like Dennis and Derek Strange run the alleys and streets of Park View and grow to be men. He didn't talk to the young ones until they came of age, and when they got involved with him it was always of their own volition. He was not a good man, nor was he bad.

Hayes sat in his living room with Dennis Strange, having a couple of Margeaux cognacs, listening to a record, enjoying the music and each other's company but saying little because both of them were high. They had shared a joint of gage, and now the cognac was working on them, too, giving them that warm liquor thing on top of the head thing that blurred the edges of the room. Dennis had swallowed a red an hour earlier and was just about where he wanted to be. He had left the apartment before his parents came home from work, because he hadn't wanted to look them in the eye.

"There it is, right there," said Hayes. "Hear him growlin'?"

"Man can do it."

"They say Sam was soft. If the only Cooke you own is Live at the Copa, Live at the Copa, you might think so. But you got to listen to these old records to know." you might think so. But you got to listen to these old records to know."

Dennis smiled and nodded his head. Like Dennis's father, Hayes went for that old sound, the R&B singers with the gospel roots. Dennis had spent many a night up here, listening to Sam Cooke's Keen sides, the Soul Stirrers with R. H. Harris, the Pilgrim Travelers with J. W. Alexander, Jackie Wilson, and others. He was not religious, but he often got the feeling he got in church, listening to these records.

Dennis felt comfortable here. When they weren't deep inside their heads or into the music, he and Hayes often had long discussions about politics and the black man's future in America. Hayes was smart and sensible and put his words together right. Dennis knew enough to realize that James Hayes was a father to him in ways that his own father could not bring himself to be. He listened, for one, and was not quick to judge. Dennis also knew that it was easy for a man to let you slide on things, and be your friend, when you were not his son.

"I've got a woman," said Hayes.

"Ray Charles," said Dennis, laughing at his little joke, laughing because he was high.

"What I'm sayin' is, I've got a lady friend comin' over tonight."

"I hear you."

"I don't mean to put you out."

"Ain't no thing," said Dennis. "We're cool."

Dennis didn't want to leave. He had no place to go. But he got up from the floor, where he had been sitting cross-legged, and stretched. He finished his cognac and put the empty snifter on the small table beside the chair where Hayes always sat. He shook Hayes's hand.

Near the front door of the apartment, in a bowl on a telephone stand where Hayes kept his keys and things, Dennis saw the check, written by Jones's lady friend, that he had brought over on Sunday night.

"You ain't cashed this yet?" said Dennis.

"Was feeling poorly the last couple days. Haven't had the chance to get to the bank."

"I was just wondering if it was any good."

"If it isn't, I'm gonna need you to make make it good." it good."

"You know know I will." I will."

Dennis said this with bravado, but he didn't know what he'd do if the check were to bounce. He didn't want to deal with Jones again, not after what he'd done to him and especially Kenneth. He wondered what had happened to Kenneth, if the police had took him in, and if they had, would he do time. He hadn't really thought the whole thing through, the consequences and such, when he'd talked to that old man down at the market. Just an impulse, really, nothing like a plan. He wasn't sorry he'd done it or anything, 'cause it was the right thing to do, but . . . whatever. He didn't want to think on it, not right now. His head was up too good.

"Take it easy, young man," said Hayes.

"You, too."

Dennis went out the door. He took the stairs down to the foyer of the row house where Hayes had his place and stepped out to the street.

The moon hung low and bright. Dennis could see no clouds. But to him it smelled like rain.

He walked up Otis toward the school, pa.s.sing many parked cars. Mustangs and Novas for the c.o.c.k-strong, Dodge Monacos and Olds 88s for the middle-aged and elderly, Caddys and Lincolns for those who liked to show. This was not his street, but he could match many of the vehicles to the houses where their owners stayed. He could match them all when he was straight. He pa.s.sed a green Buick Special, then a VW Bug owned by this brother he knew who was always high, and a new Camaro, white with orange hood stripes, whose owner was a mechanic up near Fort Totten. Dennis had always been able to identify large things with small pieces of information. Like the dogs barking in the alleys. He could tell you the names of those dogs. Though maybe not right now. His head was all torn up.

He found himself on the grounds of Park View Elementary. He limped across the weedy field. He found the last quarter of the joint they'd smoked in his pocket and lit it with a match. He had a seat on a swing that he barely fit into and hit the jay. He snorted up the smoke that was coming off its tip and held the whole draw in his lungs.

His parents had finished dinner by now. His mother had washed the dishes, taken her bath, and gone to bed. His father would still be up, nursing his one beer, watching television. What was it, around eleven? He would be into Wanted: Dead or Alive Wanted: Dead or Alive on channel 20. A rerun, but his father didn't care. Long as it had horses and guns. on channel 20. A rerun, but his father didn't care. Long as it had horses and guns.

Dennis chuckled as he exhaled his smoke. He rubbed at the top of his head.

His father had listened to him the night before, when Dennis had told him about his plan. How he was gonna turn it all around, get a job, work hard like his brother, and get his own place like his brother had, because his eyes had opened up and he'd learned. His father had nodded patiently the whole time he was talking. Yeah, there was the usual flicker of doubt in his eyes, and his hands were opening and closing at his sides, the way they did when he was impatient. But he had listened. listened.

That plan thing, it was all bulls.h.i.t, anyway. Dennis had looked through the want ads in the morning but had made no calls. Basically, he'd done nothing all day. And here he was, sitting on a swing set late at night, no friends, no woman, no one to talk to and no one looking to talk to him. Just high. Sitting in the same swing he'd sat in over twenty years ago. Still a child, gone no further than a child.

His plan had felt electric last night. It felt like nothing now.

Derek'll find me something, though, thought Dennis. My little brother will hook me up.

He wet his fingers and extinguished the roach, putting it into his pocket because there was a hit or two to be had later on. He got up and limped across the field.

Otis Place was up ahead. He could hear the bark of the dogs in its backyards. He cut into a short stretch of alley that joined the long common alley that ran between Otis and Princeton. Behind the corner house, he pa.s.sed a mongrel named Betty who was growling with her face up against her owner's fence. Betty knew him by sight and smell. Dennis said a few calm words, but Betty did not cease, and Dennis shrugged and moved on.

He knew every stone in this alley. Didn't even have to look at his feet to mind the uneven parts. When he and his father had played catch back here in the late '40s, around sundown on summer nights, his pop would throw him grounders along with flies. Got so he knew when the ball would take a hop, depending on where it got thrown. He could picture his father, the white sleeves of his work shirt rolled up on his strong forearms, the easy motion of his throws. Coming out here and playing ball with his boy, even though he was bone tired from his job.

I didn't hug my father last night, thought Dennis. That's what I forgot to do. I am high tonight and I might be high tomorrow, but I will hug my father when I get inside his place and I will tell him how good it felt for him to listen. What it meant, and how good it felt to me.

Halfway down the alley, a German shepherd mix ran back and forth behind the fence, baring his teeth and gums, barking rapidly. The shepherd's name was Brave, and Dennis stopped to pet him every day. Dennis approached the fence and leaned forward, extending his hand so the dog could smell it through the links.

"Come here, boy. It's me."

Brave barked wildly, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the air with his jaws. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and his eyes were feral and desperate. The dog snapped at Dennis's hand.

Dennis drew back and stood straight.

"Smart n.i.g.g.e.r," hissed a voice in his ear as the edge of a straight razor was pressed against his throat.

Pop, thought Dennis Strange.

TWENTY-TWO.

ON WEDNESDAY, THE Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. arrived in Tennessee. The city of Memphis received a Federal Court Restraining Order against Friday's planned march, claiming that officials there would be unable to "control" the partic.i.p.ants. Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. arrived in Tennessee. The city of Memphis received a Federal Court Restraining Order against Friday's planned march, claiming that officials there would be unable to "control" the partic.i.p.ants.